~ Life as a Reform Jew-by-Choice

Category Archives: Family

A lot has changed in my life over the past nine years. I’ve earned a Master’s Degree, become a Jew, buried my Dad, had weight-loss surgery, said goodbye to friends that didn’t support me and said thank you to those that did, bought the house I grew up in, got married (although the State of California will deny this), and soon I’ll say hello to 50. Despite all I’ve done, there’s one thing I haven’t done – talk to my Mom.

Nine years ago today, September 6th, 2002, my Mom lost her fight with breast cancer. I watched the essence of who she was leave her thin, frail, body behind to enter a space or time or place where pain is non-existent and worry is no more. I often think of that moment and feel thankful that I was there as she passed from one life to the next. I know it’s not for me to understand what happens after death but I truly hope that every dream she had somehow, in some way, shape, or form, came true.

At her memorial service, I played the song, “For a Dancer,” by Jackson Browne (I’ve included a YouTube link above and hopefully it works because I’ve not tried it before)because the melody moves me and the words describe many of the feelings I have about not only her death, but death in general. When I listen to the song, I can sometimes hear her voice telling me what to do or how to dress or what to say. I never thought I’d miss that voice, but I do.

Five years ago today, August 24, 2006, my Dad died. Because I am a Jew, I especially remember my Father today on his Yahrzeit (Yiddish, meaning “a year’s time”). Of the several occasions throughout the Jewish year that the dead are memorialized, the Yahrzeit is the most significant and while, according to tradition my Father’s yahrzeit is to be observed according to the Jewish calendar, because my Father was not Jewish, I choose to observe his yahrzeit as it falls on the secular calendar.

In the 16th century code of Jewish law known as the Shulhan Arukh (which is literally translated as “set table”) Joseph Caro writes, “One should not grieve too much for the dead and whoever grieves excessively is really grieving for someone else.” Although I don’t “grieve excessively,” I often grieve for “someone else” and on this day set aside to remember my Dad, the “someone else” I grieve for is me.

After I light a candle and recite Kaddish, I begin what will be a day filled with memories of my Dad. The things he taught me and the things he didn’t. The rollercoaster that was my relationship with him. His weathered skin and tired eyes. The deafening silence of the look on his face as he sat in the back yard, petting the dog, smoking a cigarette, and drinking his 20th cup of coffee. The way he lived and the way he died.

But on this day of remembering I also find myself questioning. What would my Dad be like today? Had he left the hospital would he have looked at life differently? Would he have succeeded in his millionth attempt to quit smoking? Would he have grown to like my sister’s boyfriend? Would he, unable to shoulder the ache of losing his wife of nearly 45 years, simply have given up?

Today more than any other, I seem to sense his spirit accompany me as I go about my daily tasks. I can almost smell the scent of Old Spice mixed with cigarette smoke and hear the heels of his boots as he walks down the hallway toward the front door. He is somehow here, looking over my shoulder, offering suggestions on what book I should read next or how to set the sprinkler so it reaches every corner of the lawn in one pass. He sits next to me in the car reminding me to “slow down and drive safely,” and he gets irritated when a clerk at the drugstore takes more than a minute to fill my prescription.

As the day continues, I not only remember but I also grieve. Grieve for the loss of his presence in my life. Grieve for the fact that, in two short months, he won’t be there as I turn 50. Grieve that he won’t be there waiting as the surgeon fixes my bad knee. Grieve that he wasn’t there as I received my graduate degree and grieve that I turned down the opportunity (more than once) to take a ride on the back of his motorcycle.

Today, I remember my Dad and for a short time, I grieve for myself. I miss you, Dad, and sometimes I just can’t believe that you’re really gone.

Last week after I called the only florist in the small Midwestern town I’m from, an odd thought went through my mind. The woman I spoke with, Betty, apparently remembered me from the two times I had visited her flower shop; it was her store, Becker’s Florist, that had provided the flowers for both my parent’s funerals. When I called Becker’s last week I had already chosen a nice arrangement to have placed on my Mom’s headstone for Mother’s Day but when I gave Betty the item number from the Becker website, she said, “Oh honey, I’ll make something special for your Mom, something pretty that I know she would like!” And that’s when it occurred to me… I wonder if my Mom knows there is a “special” bouquet of flowers on her headstone today?

Unlike Christianity, Judaism places little emphasis on the notion of “life after death.” As a Jew, I concentrate on the things I can do each day to make the world a better place. But truth be told, there are still times when I ponder what will “happen” after I die and I wonder, now that both of my parents have died, what “happened” to them? Are they capable of “knowing?”

Because the only thing I can say for certain about God is that I believe in God, anything I imagine about where or how my Mom “is” is woefully inadequate. Like Maimonides, I am an adherent of “negative theology;” in other words, everything I know about God I can only describe in negative terms, i.e. God is not limited, God is not selective, God is not cruel. For this reason, I believe that God would not allow my Mom to eternally suffer the indescribable pain of the cancer that took her life. God would not keep my Mom from spending eternity with the man she loved for over 45 years (my Dad) and God would not eternally deny her the joy and happiness she was unable to feel when she was alive. Although I believe these things from the bottom of my heart there remains an uncertainty that is undeniable; my humanity does not allow me to understand the “capabilities” of God and my finite being is unable to conceive the infinite “nature” of God. This reality has left me mulling over the same question all week – I wonder if she knows? On Mother’s Day 2011, I wonder if my Mom knows:

How, when I look in the mirror I sometimes see her face staring back at me.

That I have 4 different “purses” inside my purse, just like she used to.

That I can’t fall asleep at night unless I read for at least an hour and

That, like her, I never last more than 20 minutes.

How I oftentimes find myself standing with my hands on my hips, swaying back and forth as I stare at a store shelf trying to decide what to buy.

That I’m still at my County job because I “can’t give up that retirement.”

That I feel like I’ve failed her because I’m fatter than I was when she died.

That one of my biggest regrets is that she never knew I was accepted to and graduated from the school I dreamed of going to.

That sometimes I cry when I see a woman my age spending time with her healthy, elderly mother.

Familial relationships are complex. Although I don’t talk about them often, I have two sisters. One lives out of the country and one lives down the freeway, about 20 minutes away. I’ve never been exceptionally close to either one of them but logic would seem to dictate that I would at least be close to the sister that lives 20 minutes away. Unfortunately, as we are all painfully reminded at some point in our lives, there are always things that happen that just don’t have any logical explanation. My relationship with my middle sister is one of those things.

When my parents, z”l, died so did my relationship with K. We’ve not spoken since she stormed out of my house in a fit of rage over the fact that I refused to attend a dinner at which her significant other would be in attendance but mine would not be invited. That was last April. I received an e-mail from her for my birthday in October. That was our last contact.

There’s a saying that is often repeated in 12-step meetings – insanity is repeating the same action over and over and expecting a different result. I’ve not contacted my sister because I know the result won’t be any different from what it’s been since my father died four years ago. K and I will exchange pleasantries for five minutes or so and shortly after that the conversation will turn into a shouting match over things that happened four years ago – it always does and it always will. That being said, it doesn’t mean that my choice isn’t difficult and doesn’t come without consequences and it doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to call her and be a part of her life. I just know that for the sake of my own sanity, I can’t. However, she’s still my sister and it’s still a painful decision. With both of my parents gone she is one of the last two members of my family of origin that I have left.

Today I discovered, quite accidentally via Facebook, that she and her boyfriend have purchased a house and are moving. And I cried. I really am out of the loop – and out of her life.

Four years ago, I lost my Dad. It was unexpected and caught me completely by surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as helpless and scared as when the Doctors told us that the infection had just spread too quickly and was beyond treating. When my Mom died, Dad was there to take care of the “grown-up” stuff; he coordinated the memorial service, made the arrangements to go to Iowa for her burial, and took care of all the other things that have to be taken care of when one loses a spouse. As I stood at his bedside, I realized that all the planning and arranging would now fall on my shoulders. Suddenly, I would become the “grown-up” when, in many ways, I felt as if I were 16 again.

I’m not what anyone would consider a Daddy’s Girl. For as long as I can remember, my dad and I butted heads over almost everything. Despite that, there are many things about my relationship with him that I will never forget:

He took me Trick-or-Treating every Halloween when I was a kid. When we got home, he would dump out my candy and go through it, picking out the pieces he liked, saying, “You have to share some of this with your mother and I.”

On the 4th of July he’d take my sisters and I to the best firework shows and “oooo and ahhh” right along with us over the really big ones.

He taught me how to fly a kite and told me it wasn’t any reason to cry just because I couldn’t get it off the ground.

When I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, he bought me one and paid for lessons and when I wanted to quit because after two lessons I couldn’t play anything by Led Zeppelin, he made me continue practicing and going to lessons for the rest of the month.

He made me sit at the dining room table for an hour every night and practice my handwriting. To this day, I can’t read my own handwriting, probably because all I did was crab and moan for an hour about how much I hated it.

He taught me how to shoot a basketball (“Com’on – You’re not a little girl! You’re strong enough to shoot it from above your head, not from your chest”), throw a football (“Put your fingers between the laces when you hold the ball”), field a softball (“Two hands for beginners”), bowl a strike (“You want to shake hands with the head pin, then pull your thumb out of the ball first and follow through until your thumb touches your ear”), shoot a 22 and a 38 (“SQUEEZE the trigger, don’t PULL the trigger”), hammer a nail (“Come down slowly at first until you’re sure the nail and hammer are lined up”), change a tire (“No one is going to do this for you, so you better learn how”), mow the grass (“Mow in a straight line and I better not come home and see clippings all over the lawn”) and drive the family car (“Line up with the center line and SLOW DOWN”).

He never missed a Valentine’s day. When I went through the stage that most adolescent girls my age did, thinking chocolate caused blemishes, he got me a two-inch tall candle of Garfield the Cat that said, “I love you.” I still have the candle sitting on my desk at work.

He took me and 5 of my best friends to Magic Mountain for the day when I turned 16.

He picked me up at midnight when I wanted to stay late roller skating and at 2 in the morning after Halloween Haunt at Knott’s Berry Farm.

He came to every basketball game, softball game, track meet, Police Explorer event or special program I was in.

He never came home from an out-of-town trip without bringing me something from where he’d been.

I know that I was not an easy child to raise and I wasn’t much fun to be around after I got older, either. I spent a lot of years being angry with my Dad because he seemed to disagree with everything I said and did and he and I spent two or three years not speaking because we couldn’t say two words to each other without the conversation turning into a yelling match. When we finally made peace with each other, I realized that I was the one that had been wrong and I was the one that had to learn how to accept him for who he was. I also realized that who he was wasn’t the bad guy I’d made him out to be. I always swore that I would never grow up to be like him. The funny thing is, I’m almost 50 and I realize I’m more like him now than I’ve ever been and in more ways than I ever imagined. Somehow, that dosen’t seem like such a bad thing anymore.

I don’t know what happens when people die, but I hope that wherever he is, my Dad knows how much I regret the time I spent being angry with him, treating him like he didn’t exist, and thinking I knew everything there was to know about anything. Like the saying goes, I very much wish that I knew then what I know now. What I do know is that my Dad died too young and I wasn’t really prepared for him to go.

I miss my Mom. In the 8 years that have gone by since her death there isn’t a single Mother’s Day that I haven’t felt both sad and regretful. Sad that she’s no longer physically here for me to hug and regretful that I spent many years feeling burdened and inconvenienced each time I had to spend time with her. Although I was afforded the chance before she died to apologize for my behaviour and repair my relationship with her, I frequently think about the times I was unkind and insensitive and I feel a tremendous amount of sorrow that I didn’t have more time to show her that I loved and respected her.

My Mom and I weren’t best friends and I wasn’t the easiest daughter to raise. Instead of frilly clothes, make-up, and Home Economics, I was in to jeans and t-shirts, baseball and basketball, and Wood Shop. It seems as though we fought constantly about one thing or another; she wanted me to keep my hair long and I wanted it short. She wanted me to wear skirts and heels and I wanted to wear Levis and high-tops. She wanted me to be quiet and demure and I was loud and abrasive. I think many teenage girls go through periods of despising their mothers but my rebellion lasted well into my twenties and I know that my Mom spent a lot of time crying over mean things I said and did.

When I was 30, a close friend told me if I didn’t get some help dealing with the huge chip on my shoulder, she was no longer interested in continuing our friendship. I was extremely overweight and decided I would go to therapy so I could get to the root of my weight issues (because I just knew that would fix everything). Once in the therapist’s office I quickly blamed most of my issues on my mother and after 30 minutes or so, the therapist looked at me and said, “Look – you’re not going to come here and be a victim. I can help you repair your relationship with your Mom (and Dad, too) but you have to decide if you want a relationship with her (them) or not. If you do, you’re going to take responsibility for your part in that relationship.” I almost threw my Diet Coke at him and left but instead I decided that I wasn’t willing to give up my relationship with my Mom and I stayed and listened to what he suggested. That decision changed my life.

I gradually got better at allowing my Mom to be who she was and I found that we didn’t yell at each other nearly as often and were able to spend time together without both of us leaving in tears. That summer, I joined a bowling league with my folks and every Friday night after we were finished bowling, we’d go across the street to Cocos and have coffee and just chat. It was during one of those nights out that I came out to both my parents and I’ll never forget my Mom saying, “[Sara], I don’t want to hear about that.” I gave her time and allowed her to deal with it in her own way and gradually (although she would never be able to say the word “gay” or “lesbian”) she accepted me for who I am.

By the time I graduated with my undergraduate degree, my Mom was too sick to attend the ceremony. Just three months earlier she discovered that the breast cancer she had successfully fought twice before had returned with a vengeance and she decided that she didn’t want to put her body through another round of chemotherapy and radiation. Although she and my Dad couldn’t attend the ceremony my friend made it possible for them to attend the small party I had afterward. My Mom was in a wheelchair but managed to stand next to me (as I held her elbow and allowed her to lean on me) for what would be our last family photo. For graduation, my parents bought me the Plaut Torah Commentary and to this day it remains one of my most cherished possessions. It is signed by both my parents on the back of the last page as one opens the book- right to left (the Plaut Commentary opens left to right). I never said a word to them about it and every time I use it I look at the sentiment written by my Mom in her unsteady hand and feel a catch in my throat as I see the small smiley face she drew at the end next to the postscript, “Keep Smiling.”

I miss my Mom. I miss hearing her say, “What? [Sara], I can’t hear you,” a million times during a conversation. I miss watching her rock in her chair watching her favorite show. I miss seeing her latest read with its smiley face bookmark sticking out from the middle. I miss seeing her head on my Dad’s shoulder (a very rare show of affection in front of their children). I miss watching her water her lilac bush that’s still in the backyard and still blooms every spring despite having been unattended for 4 years after she died. But most of all, I miss her voice.

Sometimes as I look at one of my favorite photos of her I begin to think that I can no longer remember what she sounds like and I feel a twinge of sadness knowing I won’t hear her voice again. Then as I carry on with my day, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and hear myself call out for Scully’s Mom and I suddenly realize how much I look and sound like my Mom – and despite my best efforts not to, I chuckle. I know somewhere she’s probably chuckling, too.

Carol Kay Danger – 12/25/39 – 9/6/02 – Zichrona liv’racha.

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